Body Count

Once the girl had finally shut her trap, The Joker settled in for a quiet nights' sleep. After all, he had big plans for the next day. And the next one. And the next. They would both need heavy rest before they set off once again.

The rain, which had persisted for a week, chasing them through the forest day and night, grew steadily heavier throughout the night. The Joker sighed inwardly. Best to have their tracks covered by mudslides than to be followed through this Godforsaken place.

Still, though, The Joker disliked the rain. Sometimes. Usually when he had to be outside in the storm. If he was inside, holding an esteemed business person hostage, or washing blood away from his hands, the rain suited him just fine. Because it was out there. Lying here, though, under a prickle bush, his vest pulled up over his face to prevent the paint from running off, he was in a bad mood indeed. And the girl brow-beating him with questions didn't help the matter.

Why did you break me out, indeed. She'd find out. There was no need to be so damned nosy. Against his will, his lips curled up into a rueful smile. If it was him in her position - a laughable thought, but nonetheless - he would have been asking questions, too. But not those questions. Questions more along the lines of, Are you going to explain anything to me or would you rather wake up with a new face? Things like that.

A squirrel skittered over to his hiding spot, pulling him from his thoughts. It sniffed around for a moment, tugging once or twice at his ragged clothes and chattering in an unsatisfied way. He watched it silently. Finally, once the rodent had had its' fill of his garments, it scampered away into the rain-drenched forest.

His hands traveled down along his shirt, picking at the spots where the squirrel had torn it. Dandy, he thought, now I need a new shirt. His eyes glanced over at the girl, sleeping soundly under his jacket. His mind wandered back to when he'd picked out clothes for her, her, he thought viciously, not me. He now regretted not renewing his wardrobe then, too.

A strange sensation churned in his gut, making him shiver, making him grin manically. And then he grimaced. He did not like that feeling. Not at all. And he'd been experiencing that feeling for - what? - a week. Ever since he'd gotten her out of the big house.

He glared daggers at her. A nuisance, that's what she was. He should get rid of her. His nerves tingled pleasantly at the thought of taking a knife to her throat, so young, still so smooth. He'd rip it clean in half, and he'd listen to her scream ... but no. He shook himself mentally. Not yet.

Something would have to be done, though, about that feeling in his stomach. It was ... sharp. Cold. He supposed it was supposed to be a good feeling, but he still shied away from it disgustedly. There was no time in his life for those sorts of gut instincts.

What to do, what to do? he thought, gazing raptly at her. I could paint her face. Hide that annoying grin of hers behind some paint. he suggested to himself, thinking. No. The cretin would look too much like me ...

What, then? There had to be a way to stop that damned sensation creeping up his spine at the sight of her. A feeling he couldn't pinpoint, couldn't name, let alone stop freely. She needed to be changed. Abuse should work. Maybe he'd start hitting her. Knock some respect into those frail little bones. He shuddered happily at the thought.

Abuse, then. She'd start learning some discipline while she was with him.

With another annoyed glance at her - sending more sparks of ice coursing through his veins - he dozed into a restful slumber.